


Broken

by zzoaozz



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Gen, Language, Separations, Unrequited Love, self destructive behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zzoaozz/pseuds/zzoaozz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do bones, hearts, and promises  have in common?  They were never meant to be broken but often are.<br/>This is a collection of angst  filled moments in the life of the Angel, Warren Worthington III.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

1 “Promise” 

McCoy's eyes shot open in the darkness. Something was touching him, crawling onto the couch he was sleeping on, crawling onto him and settling onto his chest. His nostrils flared and the scent was familiar, the weight slighter than a normal human, the body temp higher, the contours long and lean and male. His hand came up and found a broad shoulder, bare and shaking, it slid up tracing over a long, graceful neck to a sculpted cheek wet with silent tears. He did not say anything, just slid his arms around him and held him as he cried.

Over the years of his tenure at a school that regularly became home to frightened and abused children, he had become resigned too, and even proud of the fact that the young mutants saw right past the scary form of the Beast to the gentle and sympathetic heart of Henry McCoy. It was astounding really, the way his thick royal blue pelt could muffle sobs and absorb tears. As a physician, it was part of his duty to deliver bad news. He had told people he cared for deeply and strangers alike the worst news and held them as they battled grief and anger and fear. He hurt for every one of them as if their pain was his own. 

This time was even worse because Warren meant more to him than all of them. 

He did not dare name the reason his heart was breaking with every shudder that wracked the form he held. To even think the words was to change himself and risk a friendship and trust he simply could not live without. So now he held him close and tight resting his cheek on the top of the tousled blond curls. He knew these tears were long overdue and he closed his eyes and prayed to God that these bitter tears might open up the doors and set free the man he knew, the one that had never returned from the empty void that Apocalypse had opened up inside his soul.

He was lost in his thoughts and jumped when a slender finger touched his face and a hoarse voice whispered, "you're crying for me, Henry?"

He blinked noticing for the first time the dampness on his own cheeks. "Pain shared eases sooner than pain borne alone," he quoted softly.

"I'm lost Henry. I don't know-" He faltered for words, "I tried to, when I was a kid, to cut them off because I - I wanted to - be – normal - but now they're gone. My wings are gone and these- these metal things are- they're so cold, so heavy."

“I know, change is never easy, especially when it is a change you did not choose, did not want. You are here now, though, back home with people who care very much about you.”

“Am I? I don't even know who I am anymore. Am I Angel, Archangel, Death, or something else, and what happened to Warren, where did he go?”

The mournful hollowness of his voice squeezed at his heart. There was so much pain, so much emptiness. 

“I look in the mirror at this blue skin and these things on my back and I don't know who it is looking back at me. I hate him for being in my mirror, I hate Apocalypse for creating him and taking everything from me, and under it all I hate myself for being so weak. I know now that it's too late that everything they've said about me over the years is true. I am selfish, shallow, and a coward, too much of a coward to fight a bastard like him. For all my holier than thou, judgmental bullshit I spouted all these years, I let something so obviously evil control me like a puppet on a string. I did not fight, I did not try, until I thought I had killed Bobby.”

Hank held him closer knowing this was more than he had said to anyone yet and that it needed to come out, a boil long overdue for lancing, the blood would be dark and bitter but until it flowed the poison could not escape. “Bobby loves you, you are like his brother, one that did not reject him when his mutation became obvious. He would willingly have died to get you back, as would I.” 

“But what did you get back?”

“Our Angel, our Warren- You can't see him because you are too close and still too hurt, but I see him every time I look into your eyes. I hear him in your voice right now, in your tears and in your regret.”

“Hank, I- thank you, please just- hold me. Don't let me fall.” 

“I will never let you fall, my Angel, never.”

"Promise?" 

The question was the desperate plea of every wounded child that was afraid to trust again, afraid to hope, but too tired and empty not to latch onto something with the last of their strength. He answered the only way any human with an ounce of compassion could answer that naked prayer, "I promise." 

It was enough. Warren sagged in his arms burrowing against him and hiding his face against his neck as exhaustion dragged him down into sleep.

 

2 “Space”

Space.

Space was such a funny thing. Everyone seemed to want it so much, value it so highly. Here he sat in his spacious office surrounded by opulent carpet and rich ebony and mahogany furniture worth a fortune. His bar, mostly untouched because Hank said he should not drink quite so much, was well appointed enough to be the envy of the Boston Bartenders Club. He could walk over there and pour himself a stiff one, but it was way over there, just too much space to cross. He leaned back into the cool leather embrace of his chair and contemplated the even larger space outside his penthouse office suite. 

The moon was just rising like an angry sickle in the night sky. A few stars battled the light pollution and smog from the city to shine through. There was more space out there too above the atmosphere of Earth, he had been there a time or two. It was cold and achingly empty just like the space around him and the space inside him at this moment. His eyes burned and the crescent of light blurred. 

He hissed through his teeth, an angry inhuman sound he had perfected as a child to irritate his father. Hank said it triggered an instinctive response in humans, like the hiss of a bird, snake, or cat. It made people recoil and look for whatever might bite. Hank said a lot of things actually. He was very smart, Hank McCoy was. He said things in a way that while casual and non-judgmental made it clear that what he was saying was obviously for your own good. In some people that would come across as self righteous or condescending, but Hank said it in such a gentle, caring way that it was hard to read it as anything but real concern. 

He even managed that incredible feat when he spoke the sentence that had shattered his heart and his confidence and reduced him to hiding in his office ricocheting between anger and hurt and self pity like a high bounce ball thrown down a spiral staircase. 

“I just need some space,” he mocked aloud, “time to think things over. Well, Hank my friend, my darling, my love, I hope you are enjoying all your space because I fucking hate mine.” 

He grew silent waiting out of habit to see if anyone had overheard his lapse into such crude language, but of course no one was there. His secretary had gone home hours ago and the building was empty except for the security guards, himself, and way too much space. 

He rose from the chair with a determined grunt and walked over to the bar. Good scotch shone richly in the low lighting as he poured a double shot. He set it down on the counter and contemplated it a long time before tossing it down without tasting it. He took the glass and bottle with him as he crossed the long, shadowy space back to his desk. Hank would be worried if he knew that he had every intention of drinking himself into oblivion tonight, but then again, Hank was not here to see him drowning his sorrows because Hank was too busy having a crisis of orientation. 

He sneered at his reflection in the computer monitor, “you were dumped, flyboy, dumped hard right on your ass by the one person you ever really be-,“ the sound that choked off the word was way too much like a sob. 

“Fuck!” He slammed his fist down hard on the desk making the scotch bottle tremble a little. He never cursed, it was just bad manners, but it was the only thing he think of to say at the moment. Something wet dropped from his lash to his cheek and he dashed it away furiously. He was a Worthington, Worthington’s did not cry. They also did not get dumped, they did the dumping. He was not technically dumped, though. It did not count then. Hank did not say they were over, just that he was confused and needed some Space which brought him right back to thought one. 

Space sucked. 

He ignored the glass and tipped the bottle up. As the neon lights and street lights began to take over the New York skyline and nocturnal creatures of the city began to stir to life, Warren Worthington the Third, millionaire businessman, mutant hero, and freshly cut loose single sank into the sweet fog of alcohol and temporary amnesia it offered. 

 

3 “Reckless”

 

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Cyclops groused as he paced back and forth in front of the monitor. “I don’t know what he was thinking sending Wolverine and Angel out together on a case. Wolverine never has been a team player and I swear Warren’s trying to commit suicide on the team’s time!”

“Hm, do you really think he’s being reckless?” Jean stepped up behind her husband and rubbed his tense shoulders soothingly. 

“He’s volunteered for every mission that’s come up for the last two months. If he isn’t on a job he’s in his office. The last time I called there his secretary begged me to convince him to take a break.”

“That’s odd. Have you asked Hank to see if he’s okay physically? They’ve always been such close friends, if anyone could tell if something is wrong, it would be him.”

“I haven’t seen more than a glimpse of Beast in the last month or so. He’s either holed up in the lab or out somewhere. He has an ungodly amount of vacation time built up so I can hardly command him to come in and figure out why Angel’s being a moody bitch.” 

Jean could not resist giggling.

“Dammit Wings! Back the fuck off! You aren't bulletproof!” Wolverine's voice was thick with anger. 

“He's getting away, move your ass, Logan! Cut him off!” Angel hissed back into the communicator badge as he swept in low knocking one gunman from the roof and blinding another with debris kicked up by the wind of his wings. Bullets whizzed around him zinging off the crumbling masonry of the gutted apartment building. His only answer was a vile curse. 

He saw Wolverine gut a fool who tried to tackle him with a chain and switchblade then he was climbing over the fallen wall using his claws to punch hand holds. He searched the clouds of gunsmoke and dust until he spotted Casaveras again running down a narrow alley behind the apartment. He veered after him oblivious to the hail of bullets around him. He was wearing his red flight-suit and had fucking mirrored, airplane wings sticking out of his back. It was pretty pathetic that the drug lord's goons had not managed to hit him even once yet. He sneered, something he had been doing a lot lately and dove hard after the fleeing dealer. 

His wings scraped the walls of the buildings in a shower of sparks as he snagged the short, chubby man and climbed sharply. He did not pay attention to whether the gunfire stopped or not once he had their boss in his grasp. He only listened to the man screaming and tightened his grip on his flannel shirt. He wanted to hurt him, wanted to drop him and watch him splatter listen to him scream all the way down, but instead he angled down toward the waiting SWAT team armoured carriers. 

He swept his wings back slowing to land. The only part of flying that he ever had to actually think about was coming down. Too slow and you could tumble which was pretty embarrassing, to fast and you hit hard and rolled, to much angle and you ended up on your back, too little and you could snap your legs like twigs. He had all the uncanny instincts that came with his first set of wings, his real wings and he lined the descent up perfectly. His mind was on the landing, or at least that was what he would swear later when they asked him why he did not see the pistol. He heard it though, deafening at close range. He never saw it though, not even when he hit the asphalt with his whole left side burning and watched through dimming eyes as the man he had caught was shot down by the CIA snipers before he made it fifty feet. He laughed and tasted blood then knew nothing more but pain and nightmares for a long time.


End file.
